


but I still choose you

by jdphoenix



Series: I don't love you [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Drabble Sequence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4277955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“HYDRA took Simmons, along with Bobbi. There’s no telling what’s being done to them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of drabble follow-ups to the original two-part series. All of these have been previously posted on tumblr, so if you follow me there you've probably seen them before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "and I always will" two weeks later from SafelyCapricious

“You’re gonna let me go,” Ward says, not at all perturbed by the cuffs holding his wrists behind his back or the gun May is pointing at his head. 

Phil would like nothing more than to punch the smile right off his face, but if he does it, then Hunter will think he can too and then there’ll be a line and people will start arguing over who is most deserving. Phil does _not_ have it in him to deal with that mess, not when he’s already got Grant fucking Ward standing in front of him.

“And why am I going to do that?” he asks calmly. Behind him, Hunter is trying to fight his way past Mack, but his leg makes it almost impossible. If they had a medic right now, she’d probably be saying he should stay off it.

Ward’s smile grows and the cuffs clatter as he rolls his shoulders into a more comfortable position. “Because I believe you now,” he says. A cold stone of fear drops in Phil’s gut. “I saw HYDRA’s files. She’s alive.”

“They took her, along with Bobbi.” Phil is scrambling and he knows it, but given Ward’s mental state, it might be possible to convince him to help them get Simmons and Bobbi back from HYDRA. “There’s no telling what’s being done to them.”

“Actually there is.”

The stone opens like a flower, sending a chill through Phil’s entire body. “You ordered her brought in.”

Ward shrugs. “Whitehall would’ve had her brought in anyway - they don’t take too kindly to double agents over there. Only they don’t throw them in cages like some people; they make  _examples_  of them.”

Hunter yells something unintelligible and renews his efforts to get at Ward. 

Calmly, like he’s got all the time in the world, Ward shifts sideways to see around Phil. “You’re Morse’s ex, right?” he asks. “Hunter? Last time I saw her, she still remembered your name. At least I think that’s what she was trying to say. Doesn’t have much voice left now.”

This time Phil gives into his base urges. His knuckles sting from the blow, but it’s mitigated by the sight of blood flowing from Ward’s lip.

“You’re talking to me,” he says coolly into the ensuing silence.

“Right,” Ward says, running his tongue over the split lip. “And you’re gonna let me go.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I know so. See,” he glances briefly over Phil’s shoulder again, “your girl? She’s long gone. Whitehall’s having his fun cutting her apart and piecing her together how he likes. But  _my_  girl?”

“She is  _not_  your girl,” May says.

Ward ignores her. “I like her just the way she is. And she’ll stay that way - unharmed, incompliant, safe - so long as I’m around. You lock me back in that cage…” Once again his gaze drifts over to Hunter. “She’ll be lucky if they shoot her.”

“You expect me to believe that Simmons is  _safe?_  Inside HYDRA? With  _you?_ ”

“No,” Ward says readily. “But she’s alive. And she’s not Whitehall’s plaything, which is what he wanted her for before I showed up.”

Phil eases back a step.

“You’re not seriously considering this?” May asks.

“Of course he is,” Ward answers for him. “You take me back, you gotta look at me every day. We both know you can’t handle that. But you let me go and I’m out of sight, out of mind.”

“I doubt you’ll make it that easy,” Phil says. 

“And Jemma is safe,” Ward finishes.

“See, I still seriously doubt your understanding of that word.” And yet he’s considering. 

He has no idea what’s happening to Simmons under Ward’s - and he hesitates to call it this - care. But he has a very good idea of what’s happening to Bobbi. Leaving her in that position is unconscionable, but Simmons? She doesn’t have the training to even hope to endure something like that.

“ _Coulson_ ,” May says. She knows him well enough to see him make the decision. 

Ward lifts one eyebrow and rattles his cuffs again.  _Well?_  his expression seems to ask.

“We’re gonna let you go,” Phil says. He’s not surprised by the sounds of contention that follow his statement and waits for them to die out before continuing. “But you’re gonna help us get Bobbi out.”

Ward thinks it over - or pretends to. Phil is as certain of his answer as Ward was of his. Phil watched him break over Simmons. By his own admission, every move Ward has made inside of HYDRA has been to get his hands on her and then keep her. He won’t risk losing her over Bobbi Morse.

“It won’t work,” Ward says mildly. “You think if you keep me close, you can turn the tables, get Morse _and_  Jemma.” He takes a step forward. “You won’t.”

“We’ll see,” Phil says. It would’ve been nice if Ward stayed in the dark at least a little longer about that part of the plan, but he was always gonna figure it out. 

Ward smiles again and it does nothing to ease Phil’s fears that this might be the wrong decision. “Okay then. Let’s get to work.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: huntingbird + "mind if I sleep here tonight?" from an anon

Lance stalls in the doorway, his weight balanced carefully over his good leg. He thought he was prepared - he saw her on the Bus and it’s not like that Ward bastard pulled any punches when he told them what Whitehall was doing to her - but none of that was enough to ready him for the sight of strong, steady Bobbi Morse curled up in a hospital bed. She looks small, like a child folding in on herself to protect her from pain. And she’s so damn pale. Even turned away from him, the skin he can see is nearly as white as her sheets and her hair is a stringy mess.

He takes a deep, fortifying breath (the last thing she needs is him falling apart all over her) and carefully sets the point of his crutch into the room.

“So your doctors, as I’m sure they’ve told you,” he says, adopting a falsely bright tone as he makes his way around the bed, “have prescribed you all sorts of drugs and treatments and whathaveyou, but somehow they missed the most important thing.” He drops the tea tray he painstakingly carried all the way down here onto her bedside table.

She didn’t react at all when he came in or when he spoke - which he’s hoping is just because she knew it was him - but when she sees the tea, she pulls a face. It takes all his self-control to keep from smiling at the familiar reaction, but he covers it up well, he thinks, with a roll of his eyes.

“Yes, yes, I know. You’re an American and thus have abysmal taste. But can we at least agree that tea will help your throat? And the sooner you get your voice back, the sooner you can start telling me what an idiot I am again.”

There’s a clinking scrape as she moves her arms. He knew she was cuffed to the bed. Coulson told him personally.  _“Just to be safe. She’s been through a lot, there’s no telling how she’ll react when she wakes up.”_   Which was a nice way of dancing around the topic of mind control. Still, seeing her chained up is completely different than hearing about it.

She brings her cuffed left hand up and, with her right, points to her ring finger. No doubt her way of reminding him just how bad her taste is. 

“If that’s your idea of a proposal, it is wildly ill-timed.”

She scowls at him and he ignores it in favor of pouring her a cup. She sits up (a good sign after the time she’s spent in Whitehall’s loving care) and even takes the cup off the tray herself instead of making him force it on her. When she had a lung infection and was coughing her throat raw for days, he still had to wrestle her to the ground and pour the stuff down her throat. Not that he wants to do that now, what with her fresh out of HYDRA and him with the recently broken leg, but … he misses her. She's sitting right here, and he still misses her.

She takes small sips, not even trying to hide her feelings on tea as she drinks it down. When the cup’s empty she sets it back on the tray. 

“Sss - sss.” Her voice drops out halfway through whatever it is she’s trying to say and she grips her throat. He can see tears in her eyes, but Bobbi Morse never gives up. “ _Ss. Mm. Sss._ ” It  _sounds_  painful but watching her face as she forces out each individual sound is worse.

He wants to take it away, to give up his voice so she can have hers back. Hell, it’s not like he’s been using it for much more than cursing out their friends the last few days anyway. But more than anything he wants to beat Whitehall until all that’s left is a smear on the carpet.

“Simmons?” he guesses, swallowing down his own tears. She nods emphatically, worry and hope mixing in her eyes. So no one’s told her yet. Probably they didn’t want to pile on after all she’s been through - and Lance appreciates that, but he definitely doesn’t appreciate having to be the one to deliver the bad news. He shakes his head and some of the light goes out of her eyes. “I don’t think she’s- I don’t think it’s as bad as what they did to you. Ward said-” Lance’s face twists up. He hates even remembering that smug asshole’s words. “Said he likes her  _as is_ , that she’s safe from Whitehall.”

It’s not exactly comforting news and Bobbi isn’t exactly comforted by it. She slides back down the bed, curling up around her cuffed hand again. Lance pours her another cup, just in case, and makes to go. 

Something strikes the crutch as he turns on the spot and he looks down just in time to see Bobbi pulling her hand back onto the bed. Her mouth works silently and there’s something in her eyes, but it’s gone before he can make sense of it. And anyway, it could just as easily be his own imagination encouraging him to stay. She settles back down, her eyes drifting away to look at nothing.

He makes it halfway to the door before turning back.

“Listen. My leg’s still giving me all sorts of grief and I  _did_  just put it through hell getting you that tea, so maybe you wouldn’t mind if I sleep here tonight?”

For a brief moment he worries he’s screwed it all up, but then her free hand slips over her back to open the sheets. He doesn’t need any more encouragement than that.

He hobbles over, in too much of a hurry to use the crutch properly and climbs in behind her. His shoes hit the floor and his leg protests, but he doesn’t care. He resettles the sheets over them and wraps himself around her the way he has a million times before. She’s too thin and her skin feels cold, but when he sets his chin into the curve of her throat and grips her shoulder, her fingers lace with his, holding him just as tight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: huntingbird + "don't go, please" from an anon
> 
> This chapter is Bobbi's take on the last one, so if you experience déjà vu, that's why.

His tea still tastes terrible. Which is how she knows this is real. No way her subconscious - even after being put through Whitehall’s press - would make her taste something this bad.

So he’s real and he’s here and he’s really making jokes to pretend he’s not scared to death. She can see it in the way his fingers shake, just a little, and the tightness around his eyes.  She’s glad he came. She doesn’t want to see anyone else. Except maybe…

“Simmons?” is what she tries to say, but her throat’s still raw from her days with Whitehall. It’s like knives inside her throat. Knives that are on fire. Possibly there are some snakes and scorpions in there too. 

She braces herself and tries again. Vowels are out of the question, but she makes do with very drawn out consonants. The answer is plain in his eyes before he gives it. She barely hears his explanations ( _she should’ve protected her, should’ve gotten her to safety, should’ve never let them drag them apart_ ) but what she _does_ hear is enough to turn her stomach.

If Whitehall’s willing to let Ward keep her to himself, it can’t mean anything good.

She lays back down, tired from the news as much as she is from exerting herself to ask, and watches the steam rise as Hunter pours her another cup. He gives her a  _look_. She’s seen it a thousand times. The first time he saw her walk out of certain death unscathed. That first time she couldn’t tell him where she was going and every time after that. When they said goodbye on the steps of the courthouse. 

He makes to go and she reaches for him, for once wanting him to stay. Her fingers land in the cross of his crutch instead of on his arm and she pulls back. “Don’t go,” she tries to say, but her voice is entirely gone. “Please,” she mouths, but her face is half-turned away so she knows he can’t make it out. She burrows deeper into the sheets, afraid to hope.

He goes, his foot and his crutch loud in the quiet of the room. She screws her eyes shut against the sound of him leaving.

“Listen,” he says suddenly, making her heart jump. “My leg’s still giving me all sorts of grief and I  _did_  just put it through hell getting you that tea, so maybe you wouldn’t mind if I sleep here tonight?”

She smiles into the pillow and pulls the blankets up so he can climb in. He’s quick, for a guy with a limp, and when he presses into her back it’s almost painful. But in a good way. In a way that lets her know she’s safe and cared for. The horrors of the last however-many days might try to sneak up on her while she sleeps, but Hunter’ll be here through it. She wouldn't want anyone else.

He curls around her and she clings tight to him in return. He doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing  _to_  say, but before she falls asleep again, she feels tears leaking through her hair.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "and I always will" DVD commentary D (aka what comes next) from SafelyCapricious

In HYDRA they don’t say the walls have ears, because of course they do, and eyes as well. The important fact is that in HYDRA, the walls _talk_. There is nothing said or done within the bounds of a HYDRA facility that is not observed and kept catalogued somewhere. Which means every second of Jemma’s life for the past six months has been recorded in great detail. 

Part of her cringes at the invasion, but overall she can’t help but find it oddly comforting. Certainly the lack of privacy, even in the bathroom of all places, is disturbing, but if she should fall while on the slippery tile, she will be found. If she cuts herself on a broken glass, there is no danger of bleeding out. It’s nice, in some ways, to know she is being looked after. 

Grant looks after her too, of course, but he cannot be everywhere at once and, try as he might, he has a talent for causing harm, not mitigating it.

He’s watching her, smiling as he usually does, while some poor HYDRA agent lays out their dinner. Or her dinner, at least.

“I already ate,” Grant says when she sends him a questioning look. 

There was a time when she would have refused to eat if he did not - when she would have refused to eat at _all_ , even - but that would be foolish. (She has to keep up her strength if she’s ever going to escape.) If they were going to poison her, they wouldn’t bother to hide it, and Grant would kill them for it anyway. He won’t allow her to starve herself either, so it’s simpler just to eat as she ought. 

After the meal is all laid out, the agent disappears out the door. She stares after him, dreaming of the hallway beyond (which she’s seen exactly seven times), the stairwell around the corner (three times), and the elevator to the roof (once). A tentacle of fear grips her as she remembers that last. She still dreams of the wind whipping through her hair and the view of the street so far below and Grant’s voice behind her, calling her name.

“Jemma?” he asks in the here and now.

She forces a smile and tucks into her meal. She doesn’t look at him while she eats. She frightened him as much as herself the day she reached the elevator. He clung to her in bed that night, promising over and over that he would never let anyone take her away again.

He must see her discomfort because he asks about her day. She’s grateful for the distraction and fills the meal telling him about her progress with the latest variation on the dendrotoxin grenades. The original version, blatantly ripped off of her and Fitz’s ICER designs, was crude at best with questionable results. Her improvements will turn it into a weapon HYDRA can be proud of.

Not that she’s eager to be helping HYDRA. But she is terribly bored and the freedom to work again - even if it is just in her own private lab connected to their apartment - was something she couldn’t pass up.

After dinner, she puts on an old Spice Girls album while she cleans up. Grant rolls his eyes at her - he makes no secret of his opinion of her taste in music - but refrains from commenting tonight. He falls into the routine of his evening workout, leaving her to her own thoughts as she clears the table. 

She grasps at half-formed plans of escape using chemicals and carefully crafted explosives, but the problem of the grenade feels bigger somehow. She’s so close to the solution and, despite herself, she wants to see it completed. It’s just the scientist in her, she supposes as she drains the sink (there really weren’t many dishes to be done) she can’t leave a thing unconquered once she’s set her mind to it.

That’s something she and Grant have in common.

“How much longer?” he asks when she settles on the couch. He’s doing sit-ups, twisting to either side each time he comes up. “On the grenade?”

The automatic response, that she doesn’t know, sits on the edge of her tongue but she bites it back. He wants a  _real_  answer.

“A few days,” she says. A day, most likely, but she can’t bring herself to admit it will be so soon. Grant accepts her answer though. She’s relieved, if a little guilty for the lie.

She turns her attention to the painting on the wall to avoid looking at him and giving herself away. The hydra has one more head than it did when she first woke up in this room. After her first escape attempt failed, she threw a glass of water at the painting, tearing a hole in it. When it returned from repairs, Grant actually laughed at the way they’d chosen to cover up the damage. She smiles a little herself now.

“Tomorrow,” she hears herself saying. “I’ll finish the grenade tomorrow.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.”

Jemma twists on the couch, in the direction of the voice. Grant is standing just inside the closing door, a duffel on the floor at his feet and dust covering every inch of him.

“Grant!” she cries and runs to him. He catches her in his arms and spins her before giving her a kiss. He’s missed her, she can feel it in the way he clings to her and she’s glad. She likes that he thinks of her while he’s away.

“You’ve eaten?” he asks, glancing into the kitchen at the dripping dishes.

She hesitates, uncertainty gripping her. Of course she’s eaten. Only…

Only…

Over her head, Grant throws the painting a scowl. He grips her elbow, drawing her attention back to him.

“Help me get cleaned up?” he asks gently.

She would be happy to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s back,” the head technician in lab 203 says unnecessarily. 

_You want to eat._

The junior technician begins hibernation procedures. There’s no need for constant monitoring while Agent Ward is in residence.

_You want to work._

“She doesn’t even realize, does she?” the junior tech asks. She turns off the live video feed and double checks that the computer is still recording.

_You are grateful for what you have been given._

“That she just spent the last two days hallucinating her boyfriend?” her superior laughs. “Nope.”

_You are sorry for lying._

“Did we do that? I mean, don’t we usually want them more … together than that?”

_Grant only wants what is best for you._

“Oh no, that’s all her.” He circles a finger beside his head in a classic gesture of insanity. “You know those genius types, too much brain power for their own good. Don’t forget to shut off the Undertone. Ward’ll kill us both if we brainwash him by mistake.”

_You want Grant to be happy._

The junior tech hastily clicks it off, silencing the instructions that have been playing just below what a human ear can consciously register for the two day’s Ward’s been gone. The words of the final instruction remain burning on one of the screens as it shuts down.

_You are happy._


End file.
